Clattering Hoofs. William MacLeod Raine

Only by that time he ain’t the one we want, by his way of it. Me, I don’t believe in fairy tales. This vanishing stuff don’t go with Pete.”

      “There must be tracks where they took the other fork,” Sloan said.

      “Might be,” Hart nodded. “Though there was a lot of loose rubble on the ground there.”

      “I don’t want to make a mistake about this,” Ranger said. “We’ll take a look.”

      “There’s a cottonwood over there handy,” Uhlmann grumbled. “No trees at the foot of the hill. We’re wasting time.”

      John Ranger stood six feet two, a man in the prime of life. He wore a short thick beard, and the eyes above it were strong and steady. No man in the neighborhood was more respected.

      “I can afford to waste a quarter of an hour to make sure I am not hanging an innocent man,” he replied curtly, and turned his horse down the cañon.

      At the fork Uhlmann guarded the prisoner while the others examined the ground for the tracks of horses. There were marks where hoofs had slipped an inch or two on the loose rubble, but since there had been no rain for weeks there was no way of telling how recent they were. The three men moved up the hill looking for tracks that might tell a more convincing story, but when they returned ten minutes later none of them was sure.

      “All bunk what he claims,” McNulty shouted to Uhlmann. “They didn’t come this way.”

      “We don’t know that,” Hart differed. “Horses have been up this cañon, but we can’t tell when.”

      “I say hang him right damn now,” the foxfaced man voted. “Rustling is one disease you can’t cure a fellow of except with a rope.”

      The blue-gray eyes of Sloan flamed hot with anger. “You’re tough as bull neck rawhide when you’re talking to an unarmed man with a gun in yore hand and two-three other men to back yore play,” he said scornfully.

      “You can’t talk that way to me,” blustered McNulty angrily.

      “I am talking that way to you. I’m telling you that you’re a yellow-bellied coyote, or you wouldn’t want to hang an innocent man who can prove he wasn’t in this raid if you give him time.”

      Before he could be stopped McNulty slammed the barrel of his rifle against the side of the stranger’s head. Sloan swayed on his feet and would have fallen if Hart had not supported him.

      “Proving what I’ve just said,” he told McNulty hardily.

      “Exactly that,” Ranger agreed. “If you lay a hand to this man again, Pete, I’ll wear you out with my quirt. We may have to hang him, but I’m not going to have him abused first.”

      “I reckon he’s guilty,” Hart said, after he had tied his bandanna around the bleeding head of their prisoner. “But I don’t want to live regretting today all the rest of my life. I think we ought to go back to Blunt’s place and let the other fellows have a say in this.”

      “You’re shouting when you say we’ve got to hang him, Russ,” Uhlmann replied roughly. “But what’s the sense of taking him back to Blunt’s? We’re the fellows who caught him and we’re the ones that ought to have the say-so. What more do you want? We caught him in the act.”

      “I wouldn’t be riding on a raid without a rifle, would I?” Sloan asked.

      “You threw it away to help your alibi,” McNulty chipped in sourly.

      “I’ve seen this guy before somewhere,” the German scowled. “Wish I could remember where. Maybe with Scarface some time. He ain’t so much a stranger as he claims he is.”

      “You can hold me till you find out whether my story is true,” Sloan told them.

      “No,” Uhlmann growled. “What’s the sense of being soft? Before we started we agreed to hang any of them we caught. They shot up Spillman, didn’t they?”

      “He’d likely bust out of any place we put him,” McNulty grumbled. “Thing to do is to finish this while we’ve got him.”

      “Even though I’m innocent,” their prisoner added.

      “You’re guilty as the devil,” the German flung out bluntly. “All right. Let’s go back to Blunt’s. There are no trees there, but we can prop up a wagon tongue for him.”

      Near the sandy bed of the creek they drew up beside the body of Sim Jones.

      “I wish it hadn’t been Sim I got,” Hart said, looking down at the weak, rather kindly, face of the dead rustler. “He had no business running with Scarface. I reckon if I had worked hard enough I could have won him away from that crowd. We all treated him as if he was unimportant and kinda laughed at him. So when Scarface buttered him up it flattered him.”

      “Sim got what he asked for,” Uhlmann spoke up coldly. “When he started running off other men’s stock he might have known he had this coming. Anyhow, he didn’t amount to a hill of beans. I’ll say though”—he glanced across at the prisoner callously—“that I’m glad we caught another waddy to keep company with Sim and help him from feeling lonesome where he’s gone.”

      They roped the body to the mount of McNulty back of the saddle and continued down the valley. Uhlmann kept guard over the captured cowboy while the others drove the recovered cattle.

      Sloan’s thoughts were somber. His reckless feet had carried him along dangerous trails and they had brought him at last to this. He would be lucky if he escaped from the plight in which he was. Cowmen intent on setting an example to warn other rustlers did not usually take two or three days to investigate the story of a man caught on the spot.

      While they were passing through a cut in the hills that jammed them close together he overheard a few words that passed between Ranger and Hart.

      “He isn’t much more than a boy,” the former said. “Though he has the look of a man who has lived in hell.”

      “Nits make lice if you leave them be,” Hart answered.

      The pressure of the cattle brought Sloan knee to knee with Ranger for a few moments.

      He said, stiffly: “I’m not asking mercy because I’m young, Mr. Ranger. For eight years I’ve been a grown man. I don’t want pity but justice. I wasn’t trying to steal yore cattle. I don’t know any of the men who were. All I ask is decent fair play. Wire to Mosely at Tucson. Describe me. Ask if he didn’t eat breakfast with me today. I’ll pay for the message.”

      “There’s no place within thirty miles from which to send a telegram.”

      “What’s thirty miles when a life is at stake?”

      “Nothing. I’ll do my best for you, but the feeling is intense. There has been a lot of night raiding and we have lost many cattle. This time they killed a cowboy named Spillman who saw them making the gather. You can’t blame the boys for being excited.”

      “How can I?” Sloan flung back bitterly. “If they are excited, it would be unreasonable for me to object to their hanging me even if I am innocent.”

      Ranger had no answer to that. It was not quite just, he reflected, to expect a man whose life was at stake to make allowances for those judging him.

      From a hogback they looked down on an undulating brush country of greasewood, mesquite, and cactus. To reach it they passed through a grove of sahuaros struggling up the hill, their trunks pitted with holes made by woodpeckers.

      Ranger’s gaze rested on their captive, a worried frown on his face. Whatever else might be said about him, the fellow was a cool customer. He had a hard tough look, in his eyes a reckless, almost arrogant challenge, the defiance of one with plenty of fighting tallow. The cattleman half believed his story, but he had a feeling that Sloan was holding something back. It was not wander-lust that had sent him into this part of the country. He was no footloose puncher